Hear No Evil
by Ms. Unlucky
Summary: Coda to 6.19-Mother Dearest. Dean was still technically a Jefferson Starship when Castiel used his Angel Mojo to kill all of Eve's children in the diner. Not completely, but on some level he was turned. Hurt!Dean, Protective!Castiel


**Author Stuff ~ **Um... Shameless Dean centric hurt/comfort...? XD_  
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_****_**Warnings ~ **I'm categorizing this as Gen, but it's kind of heavily implied pre-Destiel. :3

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><p><em>"Shut your eyes!"<em>

It's the last thing Dean hears before the high pitched ringing takes over his senses. That's the only way he can describe it, really. It's not just his hearing that goes, it's his sight too, and touch and taste and fucking _smell._ All gone. Leaving him disoriented and floating in a never ending _white._

And then things slowly start coming back to him. The white's gone, replaced with black and Dean thinks his eyes might be closed—he can't quite tell. Pain explodes from his body; from every pore on his skin and he's pretty sure if his fucking insides didn't feel like they were missing he'd puke.

Dean groans, or maybe he doesn't. He still can't hear anything other than the ringing, but Dean could have sworn he felt the tale tell vibrations of sound leaving his throat. Or maybe he's screaming. He really couldn't be the wiser.

Dean tries to open his eyes but only manages slits, and what little he can see is obscured anyways. His eyes sting with tears and blurs with the familiar burn of blood—he's bleeding.

Yes, he can tell that now. He's bleeding a lot actually. It's pooling around him and—when exactly did he end up on the ground?

Dean's on his side, staring out at a grungy dinner—right, he was on a Hunt. He'd been Hunting Eve… But hadn't he been standing? Why was he napping on the job?

He coughs, blood spluttering onto the dirty linoleum floor. He tries to lift one of his hands to wipe the strings of spit and blood clinging to his mouth, but as soon as he tries to move his arm, his entire body lights up with a white-hot liquid _agony._

_Oh_, Dean thinks. _That's why._

"Dean! Dean!"

The sound is muffled, like he's underwater, but he's pretty sure someone's calling his name…

"Dean, please, keep your eyes open!"

_Cas?_

Dean thinks he should stop yelling, because even that deep, liquor smooth voice can be grating, apparently. Each word sends tendrils of pain seeping into his brain before explode down his spine.

"Dean! You need to open your eyes!"

_Fine, but only if it'll shut you up._

To be honest, Dean's not sure when his eyes closed, and he thinks maybe he should be worried about that and the amount of blood leaking from his neck, but in truth, he doesn't even have the energy to even _care._

Dean registers Castiel's hands on him—one pillowing his head off the dirty ground, the other cupping his neck injury—and suddenly things become a _lot _clearer. He thinks they should go hunting with the Angel more often, because presto-chango-healing powers would be pretty fucking useful.

"Hggggnnnn…" Dean moans, his body still racked with pain, maybe even more so, now that he's more coherent. "C-Cas… Wha—?"

"I'm sorry, Dean," the Angel voice is wrecked, and though he's not sure when they closed again, Dean forcefully opens his eyes to see if God's Warrior looks as bad as he sounds. "I didn't even stop to consider—I just did it. I'm so sorry…"

Castiel's face is completely crumpled into a look of grief and guilt, and Dean has half the mind to yell at him: tell him that he's not allowed to pick up on too many of the Winchester's bad qualities. But at the same time he sees the soul deep worry in the Angel's eyes, knows it's directed at him and can't quite help the selfish need to know exactly what was wrong with him. And why Castiel was apologizing for whatever _it_ was.

"Cas… What's going on?" Dear God, is that hoarse, beaten thing really his voice?

"Eve… She turned you," Castiel answers, his voice nearly just as wrecked. "And after you killed her, I used my Grace to destroy the Starships."

Wasn't that a good thing though? Dean thinks maybe Cas is over reacting… But then again, what did any of that have to do with him lying on the floor, bleeding to death?

"She turned you Dean, before she died Eve turned you. My Grace… I didn't mean to—"

Oh… _Oh!_ Well, that made sense, he guessed. It was a first, at least: being fried by Angel Grace. Ironic as Hell too, considering he's supposed to house an entire fucking _Archangel_ of the stuff.

Things go black again for a while, and Dean just drifts. He thinks about how Cas just pretty much mojo'd him to the edge of death and how he probably used the same power to bring him back _again_. He should probably say thank you, but he also wants to kind of bitch about the pain scouring his body. If the Angel was gonna fix him, why not fix _all_ of him?

Then he teeters back to the Hunt, and a spirally sense of depression. Yet another monster had taken pleasure in fucking with both himself and Sam using Mary Winchester as leverage. At least this time he didn't let it sway him—Dean wondered what that said about him, though. How he could be so cold as to ignore his mother's form; watch it die, be the one to kill it.

He mentally gives himself a shake—recognizing his inability to concentrate on the problem at hand as a bad sign. Just how much blood had he lost anyways?

"_Dean…"_

Warmth filled his being as Castiel called his name. It wasn't that sissy warm fuzzy feeling either—it was soothing, and calmed the agonizing pain flaring fierce in his body.

"Dean…"

Castiel's voice was getting closer—or maybe that was Dean. The Hunter couldn't be sure. He didn't really care either; he just wanted the Angel to continue to do whatever the Hell it was he was doing. The pain was receding to nothing but a dull ache—insignificant in the wake of what he'd first come to conscious thought feeling.

"Dean… Dean _please._ Open your eyes."

He tries, by God he does because that voice—the Angel was all but begging—and Dean didn't want him to do that, shouldn't have to. But his eye lids were heavy, as though weighed down by led, and he couldn't. He just laid back, tense, in the never ending darkness.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think— It is not an excuse, I know. I should have thought it through. I was impatient, and this is my punishment," Dean's not entirely sure if the tail end of that was directed at him. He thinks maybe he wants to open his eyes now more than ever; show Cas he's fine. "But it's not fair to punish Dean like this, not when he's already done so much. God—"

There's a pause, like the Angel just caught himself in the act—his hands in the proverbial cookie jar. And Dean might not believe in the down beat dad of a God, but at one point Castiel did, and Dean knows what it feels like to believe in and lose that unquestionable faith. He knows—he's been there. Dean knows how it feels to be completely alone—but Dean also knows what he felt when he realized that he wasn't, how he still had Sam—and Bobby.

And Cas still has him.

"_Please,_ Dean… Wake up."

Green eyes flutter open; meet and lock onto impossible blue. He's lying on the dirty linoleum still, cradled in the Angel's arms.

For one surreal moment, Dean tries to tell Cas that he still has his back. That he loves him and never stopped; that he missed him while he was at Lisa's and how he was sorry he was always fucking up and saying the wrong things and hurting the Angel's feelings. That even when things came out wrong, he hoped the Angel knew how he really felt—even through the wise-ass remarks and sarcastic deadpans.

Dean's not sure how much of that he gets across before he starts hacking up blood again, pain once more lacing through every inch of his body, but he hopes at least some of it did.

"No," Castiel growls, eyes dropping their intense gaze to shift up and down the Hunters body. He looks stressed—scared even. The fact that the Angel's worry is directed at Dean, and that suddenly he's not so pain free anymore, well, it's not exactly comforting. "No, no, stop. _Stop._"

"What the Hell's happening?" Sam's panicked voice breaks through Castiel's fearful babbling. "I thought you had it under control, I thought you were healing him—not making him worse!"

"I'm trying!" the Angel snaps, and Dean thinks that might be the first time Cas has ever lost it with Sam. "I… My Grace is healing him, but it… It's tearing him apart at the same time. I'm telling it to fix him, but Grace is the essence of purity, and right now Dean's not exactly compatible with that."

"Cas…" Dean croaks. He can feel the Angel's Grace running rampant through him, and now that he knows what's actually going on, the mix between relief and tearing pain makes sense. The Angel is both fixing him and killing him.

"Dean, I need you to keep your eyes open."

"Yeah, Cas, I– I got that," he breaks into a coughing fit, a full body shaking that makes it harder to breathe, like trying to catch your breath while your lungs were filled with blood wasn't hard enough by itself. He moans uselessly, feeling more and more tired as the minutes pass. "Hos'ital?" he slurs. If the Angel can't fix him, then the only option he sees is the relatively normal one.

The Angel's grip tightens around him, and Dean again holds his gaze—blue eyes wild with fear and disbelief. Like the idea of leaving his health in another person's hands is both a completely abstract thought and an appalling one at that.

"Dean," It's Sam who answers, sounding terrified and smaller than he has since the giant oaf was eight. "There's no way a regular hospital is gonna be able to fix this. It's all internal, man. They won't know what to do."

Dean blinks sluggishly, still holding the Angel's stare because he's too tired to look around and find his panicky brother.

"Oh," he answers tiredly, weakly coughing up a little drizzle of blood in the process. Dean thinks maybe a nap would be a good idea—maybe if he could just sleep for a minute, he'd be able to think of what exactly to do about their shitty situation.

"Dean. _Dean!_ Come on you big Jerk, open your eyes again—don't go to sleep!"

"Sam, this isn't working. Dean needs… Dean needs someone powerful. Someone tainted. He needs—"

Dean can just imagine Castiel's face—can see it plain as day even with his eyes closed. He knows that tone of voice, knows the Angel just had an epiphany. Sam probably doesn't know what the Angel's thinking, and that's funny because the Hunter's sure that lil' Sammy is probably bitchfacing over Cas's lack of sharing.

Kind of like when Dean would tease Sam over the last Popsicle when they'd stay in the lower half of the county during summer. It'd be blistering hot—and despite the fact Dean always gave in and let the little squirt have the icy treat—Sam always whined and pouted and fretted over the heat, about how he was sweating so much he thought he might die if Dean didn't let him have the last Popsicle.

Sammy's bitchface was legendary then—and Dean kind of wants to chuckle at the memory, but for some reason he can't quite get enough breath to do it.

He lazily opens his eyes, and realizes he's not in one of the shitty motels their dad left them in when they were younger—nor was he in the run down diner anymore. In fact, Dean wasn't entirely sure _where_ he was. Or exactly how much time had passed by since he'd decided a nap was the greatest idea since ever.

He's looking up at a dirty—_bloody?—_white, tile ceiling. Its smells pretty rancid, where ever he is, and the lights pretty intense above him—surface hard beneath his back. It kind of reminds him of hospital operating tables, but that wouldn't make sense—Sam had said that hospitals were a no-go.

So then where…?

"Dean?"

Suddenly a mess of black hair and piercing blue eyes block out some of the blinding light. Castiel's face portrays nothing but worry—fear—and Dean just wants to reach out and comfort the Angel. His arms are tired, though. So he settles for speaking instead.

"Hey, Cas," he stops there, doesn't ask what he wants to—_where am I? M'I still dying? Sammy okay? Eve still dead?—_because his voice is weak, like a whisper.

It's not exactly giving off the comforting vibes he was trying to aim at the Angel.

Castiel smiles slightly; gently pets a hand through the Hunters hair. "How are you feeling?"

Dean's brow furrows at that. He hadn't noticed before, but there was a distinct _lack_ of pain thrashing throughout his body. In fact, all he really felt at the moment was warm and—

"Kinda tired." Cas nods his head, relief shining through ocean blue eyes and softening his facial features.

There's a comfortable silence that runs between the two of them—during which Dean starts to wonder exactly how he's still alive. Last he checked Cas was both killing him and putting him back together again. He wonders if maybe they really did take him to a hospital despite what Sam had said, but discards the thought quickly. It certainly didn't _smell_ like a hospital. So where was he, and how exactly was he still breathing?

He wants to ask Castiel this, but truthfully he's not sure he has the energy to really process any answer the Angel gives him. Lucidity is fading from the Hunter fast, and he's feeling a bit giddy and emotional because once again his Angel saved him from the brink of death. Once again he had Castiel to thank for being able to tease Sam about his girliness at least one more time—crash at Bobby's unexpectedly, eat and drink the man out of house and home and listen to the old drunk bitch affectionately about it until they hit the road again.

Eat at strange diners, hit on even stranger locals, throw fries at Sam, poke fun at him for eating salads, drive the Impala, wash his baby until she glowed, eat pie, Hunt things, save people…

Suddenly all Dean wants is to tell Castiel just how much he means to him. His eyes blur a bit, tearing up, but the Hunter tells himself it's because he's been holding the Angel's gaze for so long—eyes are getting dry. Dean takes a deep, calming breath, because he knows as the anit-chick-flick moment, emotionally inept man he is—this is big. And he'll probably regret saying it out loud when he's more coherent but—

"Cas," he starts, voice still a bit strained, maybe a little slurred.

But Castiel gently places his hand over Dean's mouth. Not enough to really hinder speech, barely pressure at all really, but enough to stop the oldest Winchester all of the same.

"Hush, Dean," the Angel's voice is a soft, smooth gravel—soothing. "I know."

And with the way the Angel's looking at him—Dean doesn't doubt he does.

"Sleep. You'll feel better if you do. I shall return you to Sam and Bobby when you wake."

Dean nods once, a barely noticeable downward motion, but Castiel smiles just a bit more and Dean knows the Angel understands him. The Hunter lets his heavy eyes fall closed—over taken by blackness again. But this time he welcomes it, doesn't fear it, because Cas fixed him and everything is fine now.

The last thing Dean hears before unconsciousness takes over is a strong British accent. _"Well wasn't that just touching?"_ And his mind comes up with _**'Crowley'**_, but the thought it quickly discarded. Castiel is here—where ever _here_ was—and that means Dean is safe. Even if the demon were to still be alive, the Hunter's confident that Cas would never let the sniveling bastard near him.

So Dean sleeps on—content to bask in the sense of safety the Angel brings—and rests better than he has in years.

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><p>Fin~<p> 


End file.
